


because these wings are no longer wings to fly

by RyuuSiren7



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Archangels are dicks, Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Seraph Crowley (Good Omens), Wing Trauma, Wingfic, fast and loose with imagination and wing abilites, softest shit I've ever written and I did it with a fever while half out of my mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyuuSiren7/pseuds/RyuuSiren7
Summary: Once, there was a seraph and a cherub. After Eden, there was a three-winged demon and a one-winged cherub told to be a Principality. Crowley can do the math; he'll do anything to see his angel smile, including giving him back his wings.The archangels aren't pleased when they find out someone has subverted their punishment of Aziraphale.  Hell has something of their own to say, and they aren't the only ones.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 80





	because these wings are no longer wings to fly

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere out there, someone is sobbing into their computer, wondering why the fuck this author is starting yet another story when they’ve never finished anything longer than a one-shot.
> 
> It’s me. I’m someone.
> 
> Fun fact, I started writing this on what was, coincidentally, Ash Wednesday, with no idea until I left my apartment and saw a bunch of people with crosses made of soot on their foreheads walking around. Life’s changed a lot since then on account of the pandemic, so it took me a bit longer to finish this one, with it being a more serious tone. 
> 
> Anyway, this was gonna be my first Good Omens fic, and then the muses rioted. Still pretty new to the fandom, have only seen the show but read somewhere around 450 fanfics so it’ll be a mix of canons and fanons, have mercy, crit welcome, etc. 
> 
> Feedback is very welcome. I have an idea for the second chapter of this, so if y'all like it I might add that one.
> 
> Recommended song for the chapter: “Heaven,” *Razzy English dub
> 
> Warnings at the bottom in the notes!

_“And pray to God to have mercy on us_

_And pray that I may forget_

_These matters that with myself I too much discuss”_

\- "Ash Wednesday,” T.S. Eliot

* * *

The silence stretches between them, the pair comfortable in its quiet embrace. It’s taken six thousand years, an Armageddon that couldn’t, and the swapping of their corporations for them to reach this point, and they’d do it all again for the sake of each other.

Crowley sprawls across the sofa in his angel’s resurrected bookshop, sipping wine and occasionally adding a snarky comment whenever Aziraphale offers up drunken ramblings. It should be perfect. It _is_ perfect. But Crowley can feel the weight of his wings dragging him down, feel the heaviness of the extra four that come from his six to Aziraphale’s two.

The crux of the matter is this: Aziraphale _shouldn’t have_ two.

He was - and, at the center of his essence, still is - a Cherubim, four heads and four wings and more eyes than stars (and Crowley would know). But after Eden, after the Original Sin that _Crowley had caused,_ the Archangels had decided to punish Aziraphale, to rip from him his secondary pair of wings and declare him a Principality, all but banishing him to Earth.

The two had not discussed it. The first and last time Crowley had tried, Aziraphale left and it took four centuries and a plague for the two to reunite. Instead, it hung between them, an unspoken weight that made each step even more of an effort, that lead him to French prisons and churches during Nazi face downs while the words he can’t speak burn him from the inside out. 

Crowley, as usual, has a clever and immensely dubious plan to fix this. It had occurred to him after the body swap, after they were able to merge and mix essences. Aziraphale has two wings and should have four. Crowley has six wings and really only needs two. What use does he have for wings to cover his feet when he’s a serpent, snakeskin “boots”[i] even in human form? Why bother with wings to cover his face when he has sunglasses for his eyes and an angel whose light doesn’t burn but is instead perfect for basking? 

In the world that Crowley imagines, Aziraphale has four wings, as he deserves, and Crowley has four wings, more than _he_ deserves. Equals in wings, as they are in every other way. He imagines that he can give his wings away, and so, he can.[ii]

(In the back of his mind, he hears echoes of long-ago conversations and words left unsaid.

_“You wHAT?”_

_“I gave it away!”_

_“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I never meant -"_

_“I love you.”_ )

And so, it is in this quiet lull between them, at the end of the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives, that Crowley takes a risk. Again. And if he is playing with fire, well, he was once of the Fiery Ones who sang by G@d’s side, once held stars and nebulae between his hands, and now lives with the burn of Hellfire at his core. Fire is something of a specialty of his.

“Have I ever told you… about who I was before I Fell?” He can see the moment Aziraphale registers the words, feel the sudden tension in the air as those brown-blue-starlight eyes clear and the angel sobers up.

Crowley stares at the ceiling as though it’s covered in Michelangelo’s works instead of cobwebs, feeling more than seeing the blond shake his head slowly. “No, my dear, you haven’t…”

The demon hums, draining his wine and reaching to refill the glass before changing his mind and grabbing the bottle instead. Tact may be required for this conversation, but sobriety is not. 

“Well. Yeah. My name doesn’t matter much - I’m Anthony J. Crowley now and I prefer it that way. But before I Fell… I was a Seraphim, ya know.” Aziraphale’s gasp is quiet beside him and he takes another swig from the bottle, feeling the warmth of liquid courage combatting the lightheadedness that stems less from the alcohol and more from anxiety.

“My problem was that I kept asking questions and skiving off to the creation departments instead of doing the whole worship... Thing. Not much one for chanting, me. Or singing at all, really. More the listening type.” Golden serpent eyes glance down as a warmth touches him, softening as he slowly, carefully twists to clasp Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.

_(I know I go too fast for you angel, but if I am to end here as Icarus, may you be Daedalus, and make it to the other side on wings whole and undamaged.)_

“We were all affected differently by the Fall. Some lost their wings entirely, most were too damaged to ever support flight again. Many lost their memories entirely, or maybe blocked it out on purpose, while some of us remember everything so clearly it hurts.”

Crowley pauses, waiting for the ever clever angel to start putting together the pieces, to see where he’s going with this. Aziraphale has seen his wings twice - two more times than any demon has, certainly - first on the wall at Eden, and again just yesterday at the End of the World.

“My dear, your wings… I’ve never seen any damage. Did the other pairs…?”

The demon shakes his head, something wry and angry twisting his lips into a half-smirk, half-grimace. “No damage. To any of them. It’s… ineffable.” He takes a deep breath, an unnecessary reassurance, and turns to meet his angel’s eyes, sunglasses abandoned on the table, something he only does when he _needs_ Aziraphale to know how serious he is.

“I know what they did to you, after the Garden. The bastards had _no right_ -” Aziraphale snatches his hand back like it’s been burned, furious protests already boiling within him instinctively. Crowley forces down a strangled keen, ignoring the slight noise that escapes and how it changes something in the angel’s face.

It feels like Falling again like it’s burning and too much, and the words are a familiar fire as they rush out, heedless of their consequences. If it takes centuries to make this up to Aziraphale, well, they’ve made sure that they have time. But he can’t let the other keep suffering without even _offering_ a solution. 

“They had _NO RIGHT,_ Aziraphale! She’s the one who gave us our wings, and only She’s supposed to control if they’re taken away! You didn’t _deserve that_ \- deserve _this_! I know it still hurts you, even with these eyes I’m not blind. You never fly, never stretch your wings, never even preen. Your back aches when it rains or when it gets too cold, and you reach for things that aren’t there anymore.” 

If he had the presence of mind to be aware of it, Crowley would be mortified to know that he was crying, tears dripping down his face and unintentionally dulling the sharpness of Aziraphale’s tongue. Instead, all of his attention is on the angel, who just looks… tired. Exhausted and worn, pale and tense in the ways that hurt the most to witness. 

“Fine! Fine, yes, you’re right. I _miss_ them, and they hurt even though they’re no longer there. But so _what_ , Crowley? What’s the point? There’s nothing we can do about it -”

“But there _is_!” 

Aziraphale is silenced as Crowley lunges forward like the serpent he is, gripping Aziraphale’s hands in his as he falls to his knees beside him.

“Angel, please, I - I figured out a way to give you a pair of wings. How to transfer them. They wouldn’t be exactly the same, but at least you’d _have_ them. It’s _my fault_ they were taken, so… let me make it up to you. Please.” 

The demon watches as emotions flash across the other’s face, from confusion to sorrow to rage and hope before setting on something that, for all his millennia, he’s never been able to identify.

“How - how is that even possible, my dear? Where would they even come from?”

Serpent eyes flick to the side ashamedly, and he can feel the moment that the angel realizes his idea from the gasp and increased tension in the angel’s body. 

“Crowley, _no_! Absolutely not, I refuse -!”

“Angel, _please,_ I don’t _want_ them!” Aziraphale falls silent as he’s cut off, unable to speak as familiar yellow eyes bore into him, desperate and wild and so full of love and pain that it goes right through his corporation and to his essence itself. 

“Cherubim - you - your wings are _important_! They’re part of you, part of your flight, of your fight style - don’t try to argue, I remember asking the quartermasters about it. Too curious for my own good, remember?

But for us, for Seraphim, what _bloody reason_ is there for me to keep them? They’re extra! Useless! Who am I gonna cover my face and feet for, huh? _Satan?_ Not bloody likely, especially now! Besides, I’m a _serpent._ Snake! I don’t even have fucking feet, really! And I’m sure as Heav- Hell- _Somewhere_ tired of hiding all the damn time, face included. 

If there _is_ some reason that these useless things survived the Fall, then - then -” he sighs, burying his face in the cloth Aziraphale’s pant legs as soft but calloused (ever the contradiction, angel -) hands thread through his hair. When he finishes speaking, it’s quiet and broken, thousands of years of guilt and loss and the question of why he even still exists packed into a sentence. “If there’s a reason, then I want it to be for you.”

“Oh, my dear…” 

He follows the gentle weight of Aziraphale’s fingers at the back of his head, tilting his face up as waves of red framed golden eyes, shining with emotion and on the verge of tears. The principality doesn’t speak, just guides the demon onto the sofa with him until they’re pressed together, bodies intertwined until their heartbeats echo between them. 

Crowley sighs, feeling the tension that had built up in him over the course of the night (over thousands and thousands of year -) slowly release, loosened by the heat of Aziraphale against him, the feel of the angel beneath his fingers as they dug in ever so gently, just enough to hold on without hurting. 

A warm hand slid along his neck, cupping the demon’s face gently even as he grumbled and flushed red. The angelic bastard just huffed and chuckled slightly, relaxing in turn. Crowley was lost as he felt the brush of soft lips against the top of his head. 

“‘m sorry, angel. Jussst want you to be happy…”

Aziraphale hummed, thumb brushing the increasingly red skin of his demon’s face, holding the other to him as golden eyes fluttered drowsily[iii] and the angel thought.

“You make me happy, my dear. Rest now, and I’ll still be here come morning.”

Never one to disappoint, Crowley buried his face in the chest of the man-shaped being he had loved all these many years. And, true to his word, Aziraphale never let him go, not even when the sun struggled to shine into the dirty shop windows only to be outdone by the glow of his dearest person’s eyes once the other awoke.

* * *

[i] There are some old Jewish beliefs that you can recognize a demon by them being unable to hide/shift their feet. This is in reference to that. 

[ii] Crowley knows he can imagine his wings however they want. After all, they’re black not because he’s a demon, but because black is _stylish._ Unlike tartan.

[iii] \- Extraordinary amounts of alcohol and emotional breakdowns tend to wear one out

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings! Vaguely mentioned unwanted/non-consensual body modification, aka wings getting ripped/cut off
> 
> AN:   
> My solution to “Does is Aziraphale eyes blue or brown” debate is indeed “brown-blue-starlight eyes” because Fuck You
> 
> Anyway, there we are. My first non-comedy fic for Good Omens. I don’t particularly think I’m quite clicking with how to write these two, which is making actually writing down my ideas quite difficult. Advice and feedback are, as such, very appreciated. Also, wtf, me, writing dialogue? It’s more likely than you think. I originally meant for them to finish the conversation about wings this chapter, but they said no we’re too busy pining and being gooey and soft idiots, so I gave up. Tentatively one more chapter?
> 
> Btw, I know there are the whole Crowley-is-Raphael and Crowley-is-Samael and even Crowley-is-Josphiel debates, and to be honest I’m not particularly a fan of any of them. I think I prefer these two to just be fairly average level, nameless employees who finally give their rude bosses the what-for through sheer incompetence. Even so, I do have ideas for the first two because I find the concepts fucking hilarious. But, for the purposes of this story, he’s whoever the fuck you want him to be, just as long as he has three wings.
> 
> Anyway. See ya next time. Stay safe y’all.


End file.
